Monday, December 23, 2013

At my beloved T.J. Maxx, you can waltz in and be left
to your own devices. You’re not a target. You get your personal space.

I’ll no longer enter a tiny boutique, just for
browsing purposes, if I look through the windows and see that it’s empty. Been
there, done that, a few too many times, having the owner latch onto me, providing
a detailed history of each item I suggest looks cute, laying on the
passive-aggressive guilt trip if I leave without a bag in my hand.

Retail is not my therapy.

It’s outdoor holiday market season in the city. I
work a block away from one. Another market is on my route home. Each vendor’s
stall is a tinier version of a tiny boutique. My
strategy this year was to walk through them with my earbuds tightly in place, to
keep the artisans from pouncing, to keep them clinging to the assumption that any
of their stories or proposals would fall on deaf ears. I forbid myself from
buying anything that couldn’t be eaten. NO
MORE JEWELRY was my main market mantra.

It got off to a promising start –
macaroon dealers; the smells of Korean barbecue floating through the air; beautiful
hand-crafted necklaces that I glanced at but didn’t dare go near; bundled-up
out-of-towners, visibly thrilled to experience Christmas in New York.

I made five seconds of eye contact with a
vendor who took on a troubled expression, moving her lips enough to get me to
remove one earbud. I thought she was in pain.

“Can I borrow your hand?” she asked.

The phrasing caught me off guard.
Pouncing ensued. She grabbed my hand, dipped her fingertips into the waxy
puddle of a small burning candle, and massaged the wax into my skin, talking up
its restorative benefits.

“These would make good gifts,” I heard
myself say.

“Yes,” she agreed, gently rubbing, “they
would.”

“I walk through here pretty much every
night,” (also untrue), “so maybe I’ll swing back by and pick a few up later.” How’s
that for a proper goodbye?

She smiled. I didn't go back for the candles,
but look forward to wearing my new earrings and pointer-finger ring to
Christmas dinner.

Monday, December 16, 2013

When a co-worker and I ordered tickets to
see Handel’s Messiah at Carnegie
Hall, there was much contention during the seat-selection process. I was content
with sitting in the $12.50 balcony seats, but the world keeps flinging little reminders that not everyone is like me.

“You’re too good for a balcony?” I
reacted. “Eva Peron wasn’t. Romeo and Juliet weren’t. I’ve sat in all different
sections of theaters and auditoriums, large and small, and feel privileged just
to be present.”

She said the last time she sat in a
balcony she was basically almost driven to jumping off of it, and promised she
would never put herself in that position again.

At one point, it got so heated I said
we’d have to sit our separate ways. That I’d hit the bleachers by myself while
she sat amongst those who aren’t happy unless and until they’re able to confirm
the exact color of the conductor’s bow tie. In the end, the holiday spirit got
the best of me, and I huffily agreed to pay the $25 (plus a $6 service fee) to
sit beside my buddy.

Did I mention that she’s 71 years old?

Whenever I tell my dad about a party or an
event, he loves to get a head count. “Was it well-attended?” is a question I’ve
come to expect. In this case, he was surprised to hear how many empty seats
there were, as Carnegie Hall was apparently a place to be when he frequented
New York, decades ago. The last time I saw something there, it was equally
under-attended. While my mind says $12.50 (which, for those of us who aren’t 71,
is less than what it costs to catch a movie five blocks uptown) isn’t bad and wishes
more locals and tourists took advantage of amounts like that, my always-up-for-a-stretch
legs and arms say Hallelujah!, the
more empty seats there are in front of, behind, and next to me.

Monday, December 9, 2013

I decorate my home very gradually
and particularly, refusing to exhibit anything that wasn’t love at first sight.
Several walls or sections of walls remain blank canvases until I find just the
right coverage. About five weeks ago, a song came on my Brenda Fassie Pandora radio
station. It was love at first sound, and the second I saw the cover of the
album it’s from (The Indestructible Beat
of Soweto), I knew this is the visual that belongs on the lower righthand
side of the wall above my desk.

One of my bigger regrets
is not having studied abroad in South Africa. One of my bigger goals is to overthrow
that regret by traveling through South Africa as an older, savvier adult.

Nelson Mandela once lived
in Soweto. He’s a big deal to my family, and to many other families. I taped a huge
poster of him on a wall in an old room of mine. In times of disillusionment, I
sometimes looked up at that poster, to help get my focus back in check.

When a Supersoul you’ve
never met but have always looked up to dies of old age, the effect can be
similar to when a long terminal illness takes away someone you’re close to. You
know the end is coming any day and assume you’re ready for it; when that day
actually comes, you’re not as emotionally prepared as you thought you’d be.

I still haven’t found the album
cover image in the size and form I’m looking for. A colorful ceramic butterfly hangs
on the wall as a place-holder until it comes home to rest.